


Co-Handling

by Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)



Series: The Diva And Her Bodyguard [3]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fluff and Smut, I know the tags don't sound like it, Multi, Oral Sex, Podfic Welcome, Service Top, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, the continued adventures of Paz in his bodyguard job, this is very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23247724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/Primarybufferpanel
Summary: "Ma'am, remember when we discussed a second bodyguard for this gig and I asked if you wanted one who stayed outside the dressing room or one who joined us inside?"The continued adventures of Paz Vizla and his job bodyguarding and handling a Diva. Now with some help.
Relationships: Paz Vizla/Loysia (OFC), Paz Vizla/OFC/OMC, Paz Vizla/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Diva And Her Bodyguard [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673845
Comments: 9
Kudos: 94





	Co-Handling

**Author's Note:**

> Self isolation (#theCOVIDlyfe) has me going with the story ADD. Got this idea, was ruthlessly encouraged by MissTV, hammered it out in a day and a half. 
> 
> Paz domming the hell out of Loya while calling her Ma'am is not going to get old for me anytime soon.

Loysia had talked through the performance venue in advance together with Paz, and he'd suggested that with the unshielded access by crowds, he'd prefer to bring a second bodyguard. She'd been a little nervous about the venue herself, so that seemed like a good idea. 

He'd brought in a second Mandalorian from his tribe, a tall taciturn man called Fyor. He didn't speak much, but he seemed friendly enough and he was patient with her pre-show jitters. 

"Gods, I'm being a diva, aren't I?" she'd asked him as she skittered past him to dig through her luggage for the 4th pair of backup dance shoes. None of the other pairs felt exactly right. 

"If there's ever a time to be a diva," he'd said in an amused tone, pointing at the holoscreen in her dressing room that showed the Diva Loysia Dances performance announcement. "This is it."

That had made her laugh, and the fourth pair of shoes—functionally identical to the other pairs, but it _mattered_ , she would swear to it—had fit just right. 

On the narrow raised catwalk onto the stage, open to the crowd from both sides, she'd been damn glad to have somebody on either side of her to discourage the reaching, grabbing hands. 

One thing she'd entirely failed to consider was… well, post-show routine. She's gotten used to having Paz with her, both to handle any practical matters and to do his particular brand of handling to bring her back down to earth. 

Loya comes sailing off the stage, practically vibrating with the energy and furor of the performance, and Paz catches her neatly by the arm, steering her in the right direction. Somebody hands her a soft cloth to wipe her sweaty face and neck, and oh, yes. Fyor. He's fallen in on her other side. They silently walk her to her dressing room. Loya's mind spins. She'd hoped that Paz might, well, take care of her once they got to the dressing room, but that clearly can't—

"Fyor, would—would you mind staying outside," she begins to ask, "Just in case there's any—"

"He can come inside," Paz says, in that implacable tone he'll get with her if she's being irrational after performances. 

"Wh-but—"

Fyor holds open the door of her dressingroom. 

When all three of them are inside and it's closed behind them, Paz says,

"Remember when we discussed a second bodyguard for this and I asked if you wanted one who stayed outside the dressing room or one who joined us inside?"

"Oh." She'd forgotten, but—

She looks at Fyor, standing there, visor following her restless trajectory around the room. 

"Unless you want me outside," he offers, neutral. 

She eyes up the man. Almost as tall as Paz, though not quite so bulky. Armour's the same colour as his but the plates are shaped differently, a little lighter. She likes his voice. When he wasn't sure if she wanted help getting out of a speeder, he'd just asked her. 

"I didn't say that because—" she starts, stumbles over ten different ways to finish that sentence. "I'd forgotten you were aware of—"

She distractedly shakes out her hands, trying to work out some of the restless energy. 

"No, okay," she says with a smile curling her lips. "Stay."

The moment it's out of her mouth Paz steps in and catches hold of her wrists, holding them in one large gloved hand. He spins her back to him and then in one fluid motion scoops an arm under her knees, lifting her easy. Loya laughs in surprise.

Fyor silently undoes her tightly fitted dancing shoes while Paz holds her feet in front of him. It's such a relief she's moaning a little as she stretches her toes. Fyor cups her feet in big gloved hands and squeezes, soothing the aching, strained arch muscles. 

"Hey." That's a thing Paz does, exactly that, and the complete silence between them makes her suspicious. She pulls free a hand and lightly raps on the side of Paz's helmet. "Stop talking to each other in your helmets," she says, with more of a whine than she'd like. "That's unfair."

"Okay, ma'am. We'll talk about you out loud."

Fyor chuckles, and she draws in a sharp breath, the thought of that making something inside her squirm deliciously. 

Paz takes her over to the big, comfortable sofa and sits down on one side, her head on the side of the open space. 

Fyor opens the fridge and pulls out some beers. He looks back. 

"And for her?"

"Electrolytes and water now. Maybe wine later."

Paz's hand is trailing idly up the back of her leg.

The other man puts some beers in a cooling bucket and pours a glass of wine. He puts it all within reach and hands Loya an electrolyte shot that she gulps down. Before Fyor sits down next to them, Paz says,

"Take off the cuisses. She'll be more comfortable."

Loya's breath catches at the casual way he talks about her, like she's not quite there, even though it's about her. Meanwhile his gloved fingers are tracing up under the many stiff layers of her red performance dress. She takes a shivery breath, full of a tension that doesn't have anywhere to go. Yet. 

Fyor takes off the thigh plates of his armour, and when he sits down closely next to Paz, she understands why—when Paz lowers her, the back of her head is more or less in the other man's lap. Paz is holding on to her wrists again, his other hand insinuating itself between her thighs. She hazily looks up at Fyor. At this angle she can see the cloth-covered underside of his jaw. 

He bends his head down and studies her through his visor while his gloved fingertip traces the lines of her face. Her eyes drift shut. When he trails from her temple down to her neck, she sighs as his large hand covers her throat. She tips back her head to give him more space, and he slips one hand behind her neck. 

"Yeah?" he says softly. She's not sure if it's to her or Paz. 

"Just don't leave bruises." Paz says. "Press stuff tomorrow."

"Look at me," Fyor instructs, and she opens her eyes, keeps them trained on his visor. This always gets to her, knowing she's seen while getting so little in return. "Good."

His large hands close, shifting his fingers until she can keep drawing raspy breaths, the sides of her neck gently compressed. Her head spins with how overwhelming this is, four hands, these two men who work together so well, being completely in their power. She tries to focus on his visor, but she keeps getting distracted—

He opens his hands and the world abruptly snaps back into focus, and she gapes up at him, panting. He strokes her cheek, and she gives him a dazed smile. 

Fyor carefully takes her to the exhilarating edge of faintness over and over while Paz continues to trace his fingers over her inner thighs, following the edges of her underwear with maddeningly light fingers until she feels like she's going to scream if he doesn't touch her. She writhes in their laps and clamps shut her thighs, trapping his hand against her. 

Paz makes a quelling sound and yanks his hand out of the trapped glove, immediately giving the back of her thighs a hard smack, and she makes a high, wailing noise she's not sure she's ever made before.

"Oh, that's what she needs, huh?" Fyor says, and they turn her over, until her ass is raised up in Paz's lap and her face pressed against the thick padding at Fyor's lower stomach. Her arms are uselessly stuck underneath her, and she makes a shaky noise.

Paz rucks up her dress and spanks her, no buildup or caresses like usual, just starting out with two hard and sharp slaps that immediately have her body vibrating with tension. He eases down a little after that, but just keeps going, steady and merciless, on the very edge of pushing her too far. They hold her down until she stops fighting, hands pressing down on her back, squeezing her nape, the tight bun her hair is wound into. 

She's moaning and whining, room for nothing in her head but _sharp_ and _hot_. It's a little bit like a trance; she has no idea how long he keeps going. 

At some point she vaguely realises that he's eased down into lighter, closed-hand strikes, less stingy-painful on her skin and more a deep thudding sensation. Her head is pulled back a little from the rough canvas she'd been pressing herself into, and a careful gloved fingertip swipes at her tearstained cheeks. 

She can feel a hand taking out the clips that hold her hair in its no-longer-tight bun for performing and unpicking the braid.

Suddenly Paz strikes at the top of her thighs across both her legs, the vibration going all the way to her clit, and she gasps. He waits a little, and she buzzes with static, suddenly needing to feel that again. It's like all the pain and tension of her whole body is suddenly concentrating between her legs. A high, needy sound makes its way out of her, and Paz chuckles.

" _There_ we go." He does it again, a couple of times just in that spot. Then he pauses. 

"Good?"

 _Fuck, keepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing!_ Her brain feels too scrambled to form any kind of words, but she tilts her hips up a little, and that and a desperate little wail seem to be an acceptable answer, because he continues. After very little time of that she is moaning and squirming, her legs opening because _fuck_ she just wants to be touched _there_. 

He pulls her legs open a little wider and switches to little smacks right between her legs, a thumping kind of impact right over the soaked fabric of her panties. The orgasm hits her without warning, sharp and blinding. She cries out, body convulsing, and feels arms tighten around her, keeping her close. 

It rips through her so fast that the next hit is immediately too much and her legs reflexively clamp shut before he can do it again. 

Paz makes soothing noises while she catches her breath. He pets her back and the sore, glowing skin of her ass. She feels Fyor reach over and his cool hand feels so good it makes her moan softly. 

They move around a little and get her out of her dress, manoeuvring her easily, and put her back into the same position. A moment later she feels a much cooler, smoother touch against her asscheek, and it takes her a moment—and hearing one of them twist open a bottle—to realise they're drinking beer. 

Fyor's free hand is in her hair, idly spreading it out over his knees and stroking it, playing with it, which feels blissful. Paz is absently fondling her still-glowing ass.

"You ever see a show like that before?" He asks Fyor.

"No, that was.. Really something. If this was a retirement show, I don't know how she ever survived the pre-retirement ones."

"Nah, the retirement thing mostly just means she's out of the arty dance circuit. You know, fancy theatres, rich people, all tightly controlled high jumps and precision shit. This is more energetic, but simpler stuff." He pats her thigh. "I get that right?"

She hums in the affirmative, smiling a little. 

Fyor's fingers are lightly scratching her scalp, and she wants to purr.

"I hate that catwalk," Fyor says, "If you can't let your star walk to stage without two guys willing to stomp fingers, you should redesign."

Paz huffs in agreement. 

"But—gotta say, when the crowd started to drum along with the beat on that thing? That got my heart pounding."

"Yeah, that really cranks up the vibe, right? One gig the crowd started stamping their feet. You could hear it through the entire building, it really…"

Loya thinks vaguely that perhaps it should offend her that they're drinking beer and chatting and absently petting her as if she's a large cat. However, after a couple of hours of having several thousand pairs of eyes intent on her every move, cameras catching her every micro-expression, it feels blissful to sink into this. The orgasm released the tension, but this affectionate inattention is finally shifting her brain all the way down into relaxation, and she hums contentedly. 

She thinks it's just going to be this, relaxing for a while and then showering, getting dressed and off to the hotel. It normally would be. They might do more when they get to the hotel room, or just order roomservice and do their own thing. 

Perhaps Paz enjoys sharing this with his tribesmate though, being the director of what Fyor is experiencing. Perhaps he's just not done with the opportunity. Either way, his touches gradually become more intent, trailing the crease of her thigh, the lines of her underwear, until she can't help squirming in his lap. 

"Paz," she whines on a sigh. "Pleease..."

"Want my fingers in your cunt, ma'am?" he asks, voice rough even through the modulator. It's always gratifying to hear him be affected. And _she_ is probably never going to be unaffected by hearing him call her ma'am while he's taking her apart at the seams. 

She manages a little affirmative sound, opening her legs further in invitation. 

There's a click, and Fyor's hand stills on her hair, Then there's a thin, cold touch to her hip and—she freezes, heart suddenly pounding doubletime. Her underwear falls away from one hip. He's cutting it. With his knife. Then the other side goes and it falls away. There's another click as he folds the knife back up, and then both his hands are back on her, kneading her asscheeks, spreading them a little. 

"Oh, she is _dripping_ wet," Paz announces, and Loya presses the hot flush of her face against Fyor. When he finally, _finally_ pushes two fingers inside of her, she unwillingly lets out an indecently loud moan. 

Above her, Fyor makes a choking sound. 

Paz laughs, low and pleased. 

"Been a while since you had a girl moan against your dick?"

Loya feels she should be forgiven for not noticing that the thick padded underarmour she's been pressing her face against is now bent over a thick ridge. She's had other things to focus on. Can he even feel anything or is it purely the idea?

"It's.. not a regular event." Fyor sounds hoarse. 

Then Paz curls his fingers inside her and she gasps.

"I bet she'd like something in her mouth right about now," he chuckles.

"Yeah?" Fyor sounds breathless. He traces the pad of his thumb over her lips, and she flicks out her tongue for a little lick, smirking up at him. 

He curses under his breath and shifts up to arrange his armour so that he can open his fly. He needs to slouch a little for it to work, but then he pulls out a nice hard dick, a drop of pre-cum smeared on the head, and she gets the warm musky scent of him and makes eager little sounds. She sneaks out a hand to help bring him to her mouth, but Paz makes a forbidding sound. 

"No hands. And you, no thrusting."

It's the laziest blowjob she's ever given, her head in his lap, lips around just the head of his cock, her tongue playing around the ridge. She's sucking gently, distracted by the slow way Paz's fingers build her up. Fyor's hands are petting her face, her head, her shoulder, anything he can reach. When she gives a particularly good suck, his fingers clench a little with the strain to not pull her mouth deeper onto his cock.

Every time she's got a good thing going with her mouth, Paz intensifies his efforts, curls his fingers, brings her focus right back to what he's doing to her. 

It occurs to Loya belatedly that she isn't the one getting tortured here, it's Fyor—Paz is clearly enjoying being in control of both their pleasure. 

She flutters her tongue against the underside of Fyor's cockhead and he strains, so she tries to keep doing that. Paz shifts—is he thinking about how that feels?— and Loya wishes he wasn't wearing his armour, she'd be able to feel his erection against her hip. 

She experimentally slips her hand down along her side. He's stopped wearing the codpiece on these jobs (was it the suggestive media comments or her creative use of the thing last time they saw each other? She's opted not to ask) but he has flexible padded under-armour plates low on his stomach like Fyor. It takes a bit of effort to insinuate her hand under those plates, but then she's pressing her palm against his thick, canvas covered bulge. There's still multiple layers preventing anything more than giving him some pressure, but he groans like he appreciates it. 

If he doesn't get off at some point here, tonight in the hotel room might be… explosive. She smiles with her mouth full. 

He's got two fingers curled into her and his thumb on her clit, and his other hand is roaming her ass, kneading her cheeks, dipping between them whenever he wants to sharply draw her attention back to him. They've talked about it in bed, a fantasy spun out between them; a second man, her in between. 

She's had her adventures and lovers, but never a situation where she trusted two men to make her feel good and not blab to the press afterward. 

The thought that it might actually happen has her panting. Not today, she's too tired, but… tomorrow maybe? Paz lightly rubs his thumb against her asshole, and she moans around Fyor's cock, the heat in her belly spiraling. 

"Gonna come again, Ma'am?" Paz says in his low rumble. "All nice and relaxed like this?"

The noise she makes in answer must tell him something, because he keeps doing exactly what he is doing, not really building any tension, touching her maddeningly not-quite-enough with just the suggestion of what else the three of them could do. 

It's like a wave when it comes, gently building under her, lifting, lifting, making her whole body feel warm and glowy. And then she is coming slow and bone-deep, pulling her head back from Fyor to take a huge breath and let it out on a gusty, shaky "w-Ohhhh…"

Paz gently moves his fingers in her until the last flutters have ebbed away and she feels like her bones have turned to jelly. Her head feels too heavy to move even a little bit closer to Fyor. She hazily laps at the tip, rubs her slick lips against the little slit. It doesn't seem to matter too much, he is straining, making a choked off sound. He grabs his cock and it doesn't take more than three strokes before he comes into his own hand with a harsh huff of breath blowing out his voice modulator. 

He shifts a little to grab a towel to wipe his hand on. 

His breath is still audible and fast when he tucks himself back in. 

Paz chuckles, cleaning off his hands on a wipe and and then grabbing more beer. A moment later Fyor leans back a bit to offer her the straw of a drink of water. 

"Mm, thanks."

Fyor seems to like touching her hair—she supposes he doesn't get any chances for that at the tribe. He alternates between stroking her head, entire hand cupping the back of her head, and absently rubbing blissful little circles on her scalp. Paz is petting her back, lightly tracing the bumps of her spine, a thoughtless little slalom pattern she doesn't think he's aware of. Loya nestles a little closer, humming contentedly.

They talk about… one of the older teens who is on a first solo job, whom Fyor needs to pick up before going back to the tribe, something like that. It kind of washes over her in a vague rumble of sound and touch. She doesn't need to do anything right now, doesn't need to be anyone, and it's perfect. 

**Author's Note:**

> Paz: "So, I need a second body for this security job with the Diva."  
> Fyor: "Oh?"  
> Paz: "There are some..." (vague gestures)  
> Fyor: "Gonna need more than that, Vizla."  
> Paz: "Well, sometimes—"  
> Paz: (3 minutes of awkward silence as Paz tries to Use His Words)  
> Paz: "You know I sleep with her?"  
> Fyor: "Yeah, I figured. Job's done wonders for your mood."  
> Paz: "...."  
> Fyor: *shrug*  
> Paz: "Well. After performances she's... wired. Likes to blow off steam in the dressing room."  
> Fyor: (long patient silence)  
> Paz: "If you want the job, you in or out for that part?"  
> Fyor: "Does she KNOW that you're including this conversation in the job offer?"  
> Paz: "More or less. She's down."  
> Fyor: "If she wants me in, I'm in."


End file.
